It is 11:27 pm.

We are in room 108—the ICU. 32. 37. 45. 38. 43. I stare at the neon green numbers. 33. 31. 34. 37. 32. Every 2 seconds they change, fluctuate, and my heart falls and rises. The cold and broken digital numbers are a constant reminder of our lack of control. They are hard, broken lines, void of the contours of life, of negotiability. 35. 42. 43. 39. 36. The numbers measure my brother Ryan’s ICP: his intracranial pressure. The swelling of the brain. The result of severe head trauma he suffered from the collision. His cause of death. On average, the ICP of a healthy person measures 7, 8, 6. The pressure in my brother’s head is extreme, but not yet fatal. 32 was a good number—one of the lowest numbers we had seen...

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